


love is a losing game

by euphoriaspill



Category: Emma (2020)
Genre: Bickering, F/M, First Crush, Marriage, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slice of Life, Yuletide 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphoriaspill/pseuds/euphoriaspill
Summary: Emma considers the marriage of her beloved sister Isabella her crowning achievement in life. Unfortunately, she forgot to take into account the disposition of her new brother-in-law, who seems to delight in getting under her skin.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse, Isabella Knightley/John Knightley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 85
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	love is a losing game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [violetmoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetmoods/gifts).



> first of all, happy yuletide!!! emma (2020) was the last movie i saw in person before lockdown started, and i was really excited to get this assignment and explore the whole emma/mr. knightley dynamic— so here’s the beginnings of emma’s first crush lol. (you almost ended up with regency-era smut before i finally had to put that idea out of its misery, so i hope you enjoy this!)

_though you’re a gambling man_

_love is a losing hand_

“Your playing has improved some, since I last had the occasion to hear it.”

Emma does not immediately look up from the piano when he approaches; she takes her time, and unlike when she speaks to other men, with a coquettish bat of her eyelashes she is still practicing, she meets his gaze dead-on. With irritation, even, because music is a torment for her, and he has just interrupted concentration it took her half an hour to gain. She refuses to give him a smile, or acknowledge that his presence is the most entertaining thing to happen to her in a series of increasingly drab days since Isabella’s departure. “You never do seem to bother with pleasantries, Mr. Knightley, before you come to quarrel with me.”

She no longer addresses him as _George_ , the way she would have even a couple of years ago, without a thought. Emma is fourteen now, coming on fifteen, not quite old enough for a season in London but approaching that time in her life. Without anything being explicitly said, the new dresses she has to wear, going down to her feet, fitted at her natural waist rather than childishly high, say it all for her. That she is becoming a woman, not a girl anymore, and the thought makes a hard knot twist in her stomach, though she can’t be sure whether from excitement or dread.

He is a handsome man, that is beyond dispute, as he lopes into the large, sun-drenched drawing room and leans against the doorway— tall and well-built, golden curls cascading down the side of his neck, his eyes the same blue-green of a lake in the summer. This only crosses Emma’s mind for a moment before she forces herself to remember that he has quite overlarge ears, this Adonis. “I pay you a compliment, yet you seem to be the one already launching into our latest quarrel, _sis_.”

Emma considers the happy marriage of her beloved sister Isabella the crowning achievement of her life so far— though the extent of her matchmaking could hardly be described as more than wishing for the match to occur, and arranging for surreptitious opportunities for the two of them to occupy the same room, the prior closeness of their families making it almost an inevitability. John Knightley is such a thoroughly excellent man, second son or not, possessed of a hard-working and steady temperament, and he adores her sister so obviously even Papa was persuaded to let her go to the altar with him. She does not have the faintest idea how he has such a pain of a brother, much like the story of Cain and Abel, but she supposes it is a trial she must bear. 

She is too old to pull faces, but still half a child all the same, and she can’t help the petulant moue her mouth settles into. “I’m tired of constantly being outdone by Jane Fairfax,” she confesses, “but I do believe I shall never catch up to her, the way everyone praises her talent. I was born without much in the way of a musical ear.”

Miss Taylor has done precious little to ever vex or displease Emma— she has next to no memories of her own mother, which she is secretly, guiltily grateful for, because she does not know how that sainted woman could begin to measure up to the depths of love and affection she has received from her governess. Insisting that Emma befriend Jane Fairfax, ‘such a sweet, unfortunate, industrious girl, who I believe would make a most excellent companion’, is perhaps the one exception to the rule.

“Jane is better than you at the piano because she has the self-discipline to practice it, not due to any acts of Providence,” Mr. Knightley says, and worst of all, with a slight tinge of humor coloring his words. “If you would apply half the dedication you did to planning to read more books, I do declare Mozart would be no match for you.”

Perhaps he means it as a backhanded compliment, the only kind he ever seems to give her. Emma still thinks she may never touch a piano again, just to spite him. “What brings you to Hartfield, Mr. Knightley?” she says with a bright, false sense of hospitality, remembering her manners as the newly-minted lady of the house. “I thought you would be in London until the end of the month.”

“Unfortunately—“ he heaves a sigh— “my brother has become convinced that I, too, should enjoy the domestic bliss he has grown so accustomed to. Especially since he is the younger of us both, and I have still yet to marry. I needed somewhere to escape him, and thought I might pay your dear papa a visit.”

“Papa is abed with... sciatica,” Emma says as she struggles to remember which ailment he is unwell with now, though she normally stays more on top of his health than any physician. She is unsure of why the idea of Mr. Knightley being wed brings her some vague sense of consternation, when she usually delights in weddings. “What is this about marriage?"

“John has become quite set on marrying me off to a Miss Vanessa Walker ever since he decided I risk becoming a lifelong bachelor—“

“Oh, she will never do, I’m afraid he has misjudged the situation grievously,” Emma exclaims, despite the rudeness inherent in interrupting someone. Forces a dismissive tone back into her voice, keeping out any unnatural sort of interest. “I have yet to hear Miss Walker speak of any subject other than the weather or the conditions of her fields— she is a most unstimulating conversationalist.”

(At fourteen, Emma’s world is divided into those who are interesting and those who are not, and she sees little value in the latter. It is perhaps not the best metric for judging worth, but the one she uses all the same.)

“I am considering it.”

Emma rotates her torso on the piano bench too quickly, her skirts bunching up underneath her. “Could you really love her?” she asks with open incredulity now. “Do you already? I suppose there could be depths to her character I have yet to plumb, but I doubt—“

“It is to be expected at your age, of course,” Mr. Knightley says with a hard sniff, and Emma braces herself for the inevitable lecture. “But your views of romance have been far too influenced by Lord Byron, I’m afraid—“

“I have yet to read any poem half as delightful as _The First Kiss of Love_ , but I suppose you hold that the concept does not exist—“

“When love, especially for those of our station, is a choice— I do believe we have some say in it,” he says as though she had not spoken. “And _marriage_ is certainly not a matter that can be left up to the vagaries of Cupid. My wife will have to manage a large estate, handle the household affairs, rear children well— and Miss Walker is a most practical woman, who understands these things. You will understand yourself once you are older.” 

“I think I shall never marry,” Emma says as she plunks her fingers down on the keys at random. “So you need not have any expectations on that front, sir.”

Worse than any sarcastic remark, Mr. Knightley gives her a look of blatant pity. “Your piano-playing aside, you should have no difficulty finding a husband, Emma,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re a pretty girl, from a good family, with a sizeable dowry to your name. Intelligent, too, which the right sort of man will appreciate—“

“But I could never leave Papa behind, of course,” she says as though it is a self-evident truth. “Since my mother died he has hardly recovered himself, and though I have no regrets about the match I made for my dearest Isabella, I do believe the shock of losing me too would be enough to reunite my parents before their time, given Papa’s poor health. And I have none of the usual enticements towards marriage, besides— fortune I do not lack, nor companionship, nor purpose. It seems more a service that I should provide to those less fortunate than myself.”

“Ah, yes, your matchmaking.” He doesn’t say it with the condescending dismissal she might have expected from someone else, certainly from an adult man; rather, with intense interest, even hand-in-hand with his disapproval. “Or, as some might put it, your shameless meddling in the affairs of others.”

“My judgement was hardly flawed in bringing our families together, though you, I must confess, can be enough to bring regrets to my mind. And if I had to matchmake _you_ ,” she adds bitingly, “it would not be with Vanessa Walker. And I would be in the right.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow and leans against a statue that is in imminent danger of capsizing. “Just who would you put in her place, sis? I shudder to think of it.”

“A woman who can put you in yours.” She says it in more of a fit of temper than she would like. “Not only do I pity the hapless Miss Walker, having to manage your tendency towards contrarianism without the necessary mental resources, but you would grow weary of her within the fortnight. You crave somebody to challenge you.”

“Why, Miss Woodhouse, your ideal virago for me appears to be nobody but yourself.” He brushes a thin layer of dust off of the statue; her pulse quickens beneath her skin. “Your youth adds a touch more debauchery to the idea than I find comfortable, though, not to mention the trouble of getting you to promise to obey me at the altar.”

“I have never obeyed a man in my life, save the pastor,” Emma says— certainly her beloved papa has never had any occasion to exert his authority over her, even if he had the heart or strength of character to do so. “I do not intend to start any time soon.” 

“Your trouble is that you are too thoroughly used to having your own way,” is Mr. Knightley’s quick rejoinder. “Which is why the prospect of your own marriage bothers you so much, I dare say— it is a delicate push-and-pull, a consideration of the feelings of another, and involves risk-taking on your part. Mucking about in the relationships of others is a much safer prospect.”

Mr. Knightley is about the only person who has ever tried to censure her. Her papa has never had a harsh word for her, dear to him that she is, and though Miss Taylor may privately bemoan her lack of dedication to needlepoint or mandolin, she would never betray her affection for her charge enough to express those views, and their relationship has seamlessly transitioned into a happy friendship over the past few years. Unused to it, and the words cutting into her to the quick, Emma turns her head to the overlarge window and blinks back a couple of angry tears.

It would be easier to handle the man if he were a complete cad— unfortunately, he is not, and not beyond feeling shame for his actions, either. “Forgive me, Emma,” he says more gently as he approaches the piano, “I have the temperament of an ill-tempered goat at times, and little experience speaking with young girls besides. I would be less sharp with you if you had not spoken the truth, earlier, a truth I found difficult to admit to myself.”

“Then you don’t wish to marry Miss Walker after all?”

“I should hope that when the time comes to choose a Mrs. Knightley, I will be a little more enthusiastic about the prospect than skulking in the shadows of Hartfield to avoid it,” he admits, and Emma bites back a laugh by sinking her teeth into her lower lip. “Not that I wish to run off with the first scullery maid I become infatuated with, either, of course—“

“Of course not,” Emma says primly, “that would be most unsuitable as well— one must seek moderation in all things, and I never would have pushed Isabella into the arms of the nearest farmer, or galoshes manufacturer. But without a.. _spark_ between two people, that ineffable _something_ , there can be no lasting love, either.” She sits back with a slight smile, her hands folded in her lap, very pleased by the cleverness of the deduction. “I do believe I’ve worked things out to a formula by now.”

“If this is what you’ve discovered at only fourteen, I shudder to think of you at twenty.”Mr. Knightley brushes away a lock of flyaway hair from her pins, the gesture perfunctory and fraternal, but her breath still catches halfway up her throat. “I wish we could be better friends, Emma, rather than having these constant quarrels. We respect each other’s intellect too much to not be able to ignore the defects in our characters.”

“Our quarrels are the highlight of your visits to Hartfield, don’t try to pretend otherwise,” Emma says, “you would have long since stayed away if all I ever discussed were bird migration patterns or animal husbandry,” and Mr. Knightley laughs out loud, and a mixed sense of contentment and excitement bubbles up in her, like she’s drunk too much champagne too quickly. Light-headed with it, she trills her fingers on the piano, and the notes land perfect.


End file.
